


among some talk of you and me

by erlkoenig



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-22 00:50:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13752780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erlkoenig/pseuds/erlkoenig
Summary: In Tol-in-Gaurhoth, Edrahil remembers.





	among some talk of you and me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RaisingCaiin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaisingCaiin/gifts).



> For RaisingCaiin, happy birthday my dear! I hope you find some enjoyment here, and I am so sorry in advance.

There is a sound in the darkness, so soft and terrible he wants to close his eyes and his ears until he cannot hear it anymore but it echoes over the bloodied, gore-filthy stones and sets his body to tremble.

“My lord,” he rasps, coughs dryly and tries again. “Finrod.” The sound hitches, choked sobs that echo from where he knows Finrod is chained and this, all of this, is somehow worse than the screams of the dying, cut off by the crunch of bone, the last gurgle of a bloodied throat--

_ Stop that _ . He thinks, and he calls out again, reaching for him with his voice if he can not reach him truly. “Finrod, listen to me. It is going to be alright.”

He had never considered himself a liar, and this was not the place to start but he had to say something,  _ anything _ .

“Edrahil,” So soft, weak, and he feels tears he did not know he had left burning at the corners of his eyes.  _ If you give up hope then we are truly lost.  _ “I am so sorry.”

He has nothing to say to that because there is nothing to say:  _ we chose this,  _ the words stick in his mouth because what comfort would that provide? He knows his king too well, has known him too long to be ignorant that it would do little so stave off the guilt that has built a cairn over Finrod even now.  _ This is not your fault _ , but all his arguments would only point the blame on to the man between them --  _ ever some man between them,  _ he thinks bitterly -- and that would not help the situation at all. There is a laugh pressing against the back of his teeth, hysterical and tinged with rust, he wants to shout at Beren, wants to throw their deaths all at his feet and curse him but he bites back his words, that terrible laughter that threatens to spill.

“Do you remember,” and he shifts, chains clinking together with the movement. His arms ache and he wiggles his fingers, trying to bring some comfort, some life back into them despite his bonds. “Do you remember the vines in the clearing our first real summer in Nargothrond?”

There is silence at first, “The vines?”

He laughs at last, a half-chuckle that hurts his throat and what he would not give for even a single cup of water now. “You dragged us out into the clearing looking for flowering vines, do you remember? You were looking for honeysuckles and morning glories, red and gold and purple flowers you said.”

“Royal colors.”

Edrahil’s heart skips, just a moment, and he smiles through cracked and bleeding lips. “That is right, royal colors you said. You wanted to train them to grow over the gates to the city, you said Nargothrond needed color, needed --” He hesitates.

“Life.”

“Life,” he echoes, and something about that word feels vulgar here in the darkness. “Do you remember what happened? You found that big green vine with the little yellow flowers and you took a cutting of it, but it turned out to be rashvine.” He stops then, frowns. Perhaps -- and now he regretted saying anything -- this was not the best story to tell.

But in the dark he hears Finrod shift, and a broken laugh drifts to him. “I remember, Edrahil. I remember you were so kind to me, bandaged my blisters when they formed and chastised my scratching. I remember well.”

Edrahil smiles again, his heart aching, pounding against his ribcage like a frightened, trapped little bird. “Someone has to look after you, my lord.”

Silence again, and he thinks he has overstepped but here, in this place, he finds he does not care much.

“Tell me something else.” It is little more than a whisper. “Please.”

He could deny his king nothing.

“Do you remember,” and he tries to remember it himself, but as he speaks it feels as though all the good things, his gentler memories were pulled from him with plucking, terrible little fingers, stealing away any comfort they might have found here. “Do you remember,” he tries again, searching for something, “do you remember the day I pledged myself to your service?”

“Tell me.”

He remembers the nights that led up to that day, how Turgon had charged him to keep watch over the eldest son of Finarfin after they had returned from their trip on the river.  _ He is having nightmares _ , Turgon had said, pulling him aside,  _ watch him and make sure -- make sure he does not hurt himself. I do not know what happened. _ And then his liege-lord had vanished, and Edrahil would not see Turgon again until he the day he told him he was leaving his service to join with Finrod.

“You were having nightmares, I did not know at the time they were from the visions Ulmo had sent you. I thought,” he shifts again, chains rattling again and just under them he thought he heard a sound like a low growl.  _ Oh please, no. Not now. _ He rattled them louder, as if to drown it out, hoping, praying that Finrod had not heard. “I thought, forgive me, that you were simply mad. Or jealous.” He huffs a laugh, “I knew not what Turgon had seen but only that Ulmo had sent him a vision of some glorious future for his people, our people, he had said.”

“He asked you to look after me.”

“Yes,” he says slowly, feeling almost ashamed that he had been so transparent, “He did.”

“To keep me from following him?”

“Perhaps that was part of it. But I think it was more a love for his cousin who was suffering some malady that he hoped would pass, perhaps would pass with his absence. I watched you while you were dreaming.”

“I remember. You have always been so kind to me, Edrahil.”

_ Were I truly kind to you, I would have stopped you from doing this, somehow. I would have chained you to your throne and I would have driven Beren from our city, oath be damned. I would have stopped this. Were I kind, you would not be here.  _ “If that is how you wish to remember it,” and his words falter; why is he saying this? Why is he telling this story, what is the purpose and to what end? To drown out the sounds that he thinks he can hear in the darkness, the soft steps of animal feet, the low growls of circling wolves. Is it a confession -- and his heart gives a lurch into his throat and he has to swallow around it, some heavy thing that aches within him.

There is nothing else to do here but sit and wait, and he has already started, there is no reason to stop now.

“That is how I wish to remember it, Edrahil. I remember waking with a scream behind my lips and there you were, arms tight around me holding me, bringing me back to myself with soft words.”

“I know I told you to shut up at least once.”

Finrod laughs, and Edrahil feels his heart break all over again, a tear spilling hot over his face. “At least once. But you said it softly all the same.”

“I do not remember when it was that I --” And he cannot force the words out. They frighten him, even now, even here, even with death circling so close and he knows this may be the -- this  _ is  _ the last time he will be able to say them, they frighten him all the same. Beren is blessedly quiet, giving them this at least, though it does nothing to soften the anger he feels towards the man.

“Edrahil?”

He takes a breath then, steadies himself. “I knew, somehow, before I even told you, that I would follow you when you left.” Finrod says nothing to this, and so Edrahil soldiers on, he has come too far now to turn back. “I do not know when it was, while watching you night after night, and then in the day, all smiles and poetry.” He feels his face heat and another bark of laughter escapes him, that he can find himself embarrassed here in this place. “Living poetry, you were --”

“Edrahil.”

“Please, let me finish. You asked me to tell you and so I am. There was something about you that fascinated me, strong and brave where I had thought you little more than a spoiled brat once, with pearls in his hair. A young princeling who had dragged gems and jewels across miles of ocean and I called it foolish, impractical, and worse than that. And yet I watched you, night after night, fighting some battle I could not see and then to see you smile through it during the day, knowing what would come for you in your sleep. Gentle, gracious, and yet,” He pulls at his chains, wanting nothing more than to go to Finrod now, to wrap him tight in his arms and keep him safe, to look him in the eyes when he told him this. “Strong, clever, a quick wit and a silver tongue that could talk circles around even the stoniest diplomat of Doriath.”

Finrod chuckles, and Edrahil feels himself breathe finally, lungs pulling in air desperately.

“You told me you would not tell me of your dreams and I knew then what I had to do.”

“What was that?”

“I pledged myself to your service. I told you I would follow you anywhere.”

“And you have.” There are tears in Finrod’s voice and he pulls at his chains again, trying in vain to free himself. “Edrahil, I am so --”

“Do not say you are sorry.” He says, “I would do it all over again, even knowing how it would end.”

He can hear them now, somewhere along the edges of the room, pacing, waiting, taunting him. Finrod cries out, a sound caught somewhere between fear and anger, and he can hear his king pulling at his chains as well, pulling in vain.

“My lord, I --”

He is out of time.

“I --” He tries again, and he cannot.  _ I love you, I love you, I have always loved you _ , and he cannot say it, even now. Not now, not when he still so desperately wants to believe that the story does not end here, that it does not have to end here. That somehow, somehow, Finrod will make it out of this, that he will see the sunlight again, feel the wind on his face and in his hair, touch the soft grass and search for flowers again. Somehow, and he has to believe it even as whispers of nightmares echo in his ears, of a dark place full of death, sharp white teeth in the shadows.  _ It does not have to end here _ , and he could not, he will not, leave Finrod with that burden, with his confession. It will not be the last thing he says to him, but he finds, in the end, that he has nothing left to say.  _ I do not regret following you. _

Closes his eyes and he can feel the wolves coming, does not have time to pray that they come for him instead but it does not matter after all. They come, the stench of rot and decay on their breath and he tries to bite back his screams.

_ I would do it again, even knowing how this ends. _


End file.
